


Black Dog Bridge

by coquettish_murder_muffin



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (But no suicide), 1970s, Black Cats, Dark Humor, Hermit Will Graham, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mobster Hannibal, Semi-Public Sex, Suicide mention, Supernatural Elements, and an alarming unawareness of stranger danger, it's Louisiana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 11:00:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12386754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coquettish_murder_muffin/pseuds/coquettish_murder_muffin
Summary: Outside town there’s this long, old bridge that cuts straight through the bayou. It reeks of fish and decay and it leads to the local hermit Will Graham’s shack of a house, and fucking nowhere else.(Will says hello to a man dumping a dead body because, hell, he thought the guy was trying to jump off the bridge. He was just trying to be goddamn helpful.)





	Black Dog Bridge

**Author's Note:**

> So, funny story, originally this was supposed to be humorous and…this sort of happened. So it’s sad, with funny bits? I wanted to write something that gives off the same dreamlike vibe as my Six Feet Under AU from forever ago. 
> 
> My contribution to Halloween.
> 
> Edit: Oh, dear. Please read the tags, don't ignore the "Major Character Death" warning. Apologies to those who didn't see it.

Outside town there’s this long, old bridge that cuts straight through the bayou. It reeks of fish and decay and it leads to the local hermit Will Graham’s shack of a house, and fucking nowhere else.

Black Dog Bridge is where he picks up most of his strays. Not a single mutt has had black fur, and it isn’t funny anyway—he’s about 70% sure people are dropping off unwanted pets, fully aware that he’ll lure the dogs home with hotdogs and belly scratches. No harm done, right? It makes him sick. He likes the dogs’ company and he doesn’t mind extra mouths to feed, but it still hurts to see an animal wandering around with its tail tucked, looking bewildered and lost. Most of them crawl up to him with their bodies pressed low to the ground and their tails wagging, glad to be found.

When Will isn’t rescuing dogs, or pulling over to help turtles cross the road, he’s getting fired on a regular basis. He’s rude as shit and he’s learned to live with it, but nobody else has, not that he expects them to. On the day he gets fired from the cramped diner with shitty food dripping in grease and even shittier people, also kind of greasy, southern sweet and all smiley until something goes wrong with their order and they turn venomous, he has a nervous breakdown. After a speech in which he tells them all to go fuck themselves and storms outside, having impressed only himself, he takes a moment to rethink his life choices. If he had money, he’d go somewhere else, find a fresh start. But he doesn’t, and he can’t stand to see another boatyard for as long as he lives, so he probably isn’t going to be _making_ that sort of money anytime soon.

After spending months putting on an ugly smile, pretending to be over his dad’s sudden death because people don’t like it when you’re sad, it makes them _uncomfortable_ —and dealing with the gossip and the laughter behind his back for far longer, because he’s _weird_ , and talking to people who don’t really care about what you have to say has always seemed pointless to him—all this sends him speeding home and pulling over in the middle of Black Dog Bridge because he can’t see straight. He slams the car door shut and walks up to the railing. He thinks about jumping. He’s seen a few alligators down there before. Nature would clean up the mess. He’d just disappear.

He screams at the top of his lungs, cursing and kicking his tires until his foot hurts and he goes hoarse, sobbing until he’s grossed himself out so much that he makes himself stop. He cuts his temper tantrum short and listens to the shrieking bugs and frogs as he struggles to breathe.

When he gets home his dogs are waiting at the door and they make him feel better. He goes job hunting the next day, on his very best behavior and wearing his best flannel, hoping word didn’t get around about his dramatic exit the night before.

Nearly twenty-four hours after his meltdown, he experiences a dizzying wave of déjà vu. His headlights shine on a parked vehicle and a man in a black suit, in the sweltering summer night heat, leaning over the side of the bridge. It’s not a dog, but Will slams on his breaks and falls out of his car in his haste to approach the man, stopping a few feet away with his hands lifted in a show of good will. He’s wheezing, sort of.

“Hey—! Don’t—Fuck, don’t do it,” Will huffs. He sizes the man up, or as well as he can with the blinding headlights casting dramatic shadows across the man’s face. “What are you, in your mid-thirties? Early forties? You’ve got a hell of a nice ride, a nice suit. Do you have a wife and kids? Don’t jump, just come over here and tell me about them. Did you know that most people who attempt suicide by jumping report feeling instant regret? That life doesn’t seem so bad after all? If they live to talk about it, I mean. Obviously.”

After waiting patiently for Will to run out of breath, the man speaks. His voice is low and pleasing, and Will thinks he sounds French. “I’m afraid you are mistaken, I didn’t come here to jump into the bayou.”

“Oh,” he says lamely.

“It was very kind of you to stop and talk to me,” the stranger says. Like the distant rumble of thunder, or a cat purring, he’s quite nice to listen to. “I appreciate the concern. You’ve also managed to flatter me, regarding my age.”

It occurs to Will, when his eyes adjust to the lighting and he sees the stained sheets wrapped around a human shaped bundle on the ground at the man’s feet, that he’s made a terrible mistake, indeed.

“Whatcha got there?” he asks, or squeaks, more accurately.

The man spares the body a quick glance and makes an _ah_ sound. “I apologize. I was trying to be discreet. I didn’t know anyone lived out here, it’s very remote.”

“I’m down the road a ways,” Will supplies helpfully, and then he flinches. He needs to get out of here, needs to buy time. He needs to shut the fuck up. “So what’d the bastard do to deserve it?” His eyes flick to the dead body and back to the peculiar man in the suit.

“I didn’t think to ask my superior, but I’m sure he was rude. I can assure you he deserved it.”

They stare at each other until Will finally purses his lips together, nodding as he stuffs his hands in his pockets and takes a single step back from the mystery man, as if this is all _fucking understandable._

The foreigner takes a step forward and Will shuts his eyes, gritting his teeth. “Can you at least make it quick? Wait, I’ve got eight dogs. They don’t have anyone else. Could you take them?”

The footsteps stop. When Will cracks an eye open, he sees the stranger giving him a puzzled look, his head tilted just slightly to the side. “Do I need to break your neck?”

“No, sir,” Will says immediately. “I didn’t see nothing.”

“Anything.”

“I didn’t see _anything._ ”

There’s a quick puff of breath, maybe from amusement. “Go home to your dogs.”

And the man turns on his heel.

He bends to lift the body off the ground and he does it with ease. Will watches in awe as it gets tossed over the railing, rolling free from bloodied sheets. A satisfying splash follows the long drop. The man folds the sheets neatly, taking his time, and quirks an eyebrow at Will when he realizes he’s still there. He sidles up to him like a cat clad in black and Will can only blink as the sheets get placed in his numb hands. The man’s eyes are yellow. “Burn this for me, will you?”

So close, Will can smell him. He smells good.

When Will just stands there, the man adds gently, “Didn’t you hear me?”

“Was nice to meet you,” Will says on auto-pilot, whirling around to shuffle to his car. He clutches the sheets like a lifeline.

It feels like he’s being watched even after he speeds out of sight. He keeps checking the rearview mirror.

He tosses the sheets behind his house and sets them on fire. He locks himself up with his dogs and stands by the front door all night, occasionally rotating to the back, shotgun in hand. Nobody comes to break his neck. He avoids the bridge the next day, and the day after, until he’s forced to cross it because he needs groceries. He drives across it in broad daylight and it’s empty, but his blood is still pumping and his nerves don’t settle until he’s back home, because while he shops all he can think about is when he needs to cross the bridge again.

Just when he finally convinces himself he made it up, a month after, he’s driving home late from a fishing trip with a couple of dogs in the back when he recognizes that fancy ass car and the unmistakable suit. Instead of speeding up or making a U-turn, he finds himself slowing down and rolling down the window. He waves as he passes by, somewhat pleased when the man eventually waves back at him. His dogs bark excitedly.

 _This is absurd_ , Will thinks, but he doesn’t feel scared.

So when nobody breaks his neck and it happens again, he pulls over.

“A superstitious man would say you’re a crossroads devil or something.” He approaches the man apprehensively, searching the ground for a body, but it must have been tossed. Or it could be in the trunk. “I didn’t summon you and I don’t want anything, just so you know. And I hate to break it to you, but this isn’t a crossroads.”

The man just smokes. “No,” he says, though he smiles as if he’s in on a joke, and offers the cigarette to Will.

He accepts and stands beside the foreigner. He can feel his body heat and their proximity should be threatening, should set off all sorts of alarms in his brain, but he feels safe. “I’m Will.”

“Hannibal.”

They pass the cigarette back and forth and Will snorts in pleased laughter when Hannibal retrieves a bottle of wine from the large trunk. It’s still cool and the glass is sweating. He must’ve put a bucket of ice in there, so the wine didn’t get hot while he waited for Will to arrive.

“You really brought that shit,” Will says, taking it from Hannibal’s hands once the cork is removed with a loud pop, because amusement makes him bold. He raises a brow at Hannibal, and when he isn’t chastised, he takes a swig directly from the bottle. It isn’t meant to be consumed in this way, it’s not _real_ fucking alcohol, but it’s worth the burning curiosity in Hannibal’s amber eyes.

“Was this in there with this week’s dead guy?” Will asks. He licks his lips and offers the bottle, captivated by the sight of Hannibal drinking. He seems to appreciate it much more than Will does.

“I am here purely for you, not to dispose of evidence.”

Will pales. He looks away and motions for the bottle to be passed back. “Are you going to kill me?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

He blinks and swallows a timid mouthful. “Why not?”

A hand cups his cheek, turns his head to meet half-lidded golden eyes that hypnotize him into holding eye contact. “Because you interest me, and you seem sad. So am I.”

“You’re not trying to woo me, are you?” Will breathes.

“Is it working?”

He drops the bottle. The glass breaks on the ground and before he can apologize, lips claim his and he goes slack, leaning heavily into the palm that holds his cheek. He tastes smoke and red wine. His eyes fall closed as he’s kissed with such fervor that his mouth opens on its own and he gasps when Hannibal’s tongue brushes his, lighting a fire in his belly. It’ll be difficult to associate wine with anything else now. He breathes in Hannibal’s nice smell and groans when his hips are gripped hard enough to bruise, roughly jerking him forward to press against Hannibal’s muscled form, hidden underneath the black suit.

He’s lifted and deposited onto the hood of the black Bentley, not exactly consulted about it, but he isn’t complaining, not while he’s stretched out on his back as Hannibal fusses with the buttons of Will’s shirt, kissing each section of skin that he exposes. Will’s eyes are wide open and he stares at the bright stars in the night sky with no clouds to hide them. He hopes his dad isn’t watching. His jeans pop open and a hot mouth breathes against his stomach and groin before kissing him in places he’s never been kissed, never particularly wanted to be kissed. Or sucked. The prickle of sharp canines and the soft bites, hardly bites at all, make him moan and he still sees stars even when his eyes flutter closed.

When he’s drained and shaking and being redressed by careful, reassuring hands, he whispers, “When can I see you again?”

Hannibal kisses his mouth and Will can taste himself. “Soon. Would you like to go out, to the city?”

“God, with you? Yeah.”

He feels dazed when he walks into his house and his dogs swarm him, sniffing eagerly at his clothes. He pulls them off and smells the fabric himself, catching the faint scent of smoke. It wasn’t a dream, though it might’ve felt like one.

But Hannibal doesn’t show up the next night. Or the next.

Hannibal didn’t set a specific date and he was missing for a whole month before, so Will doesn’t panic, not until climbs back in his car after a wrecked job interview and browses his stack collected newspapers for options, and swears he saw the name ‘ _Hannibal’_ in tiny print. He flips back a few pages and searches for it frantically.

He finds it in the obituaries.

There isn’t much to it, but he devours every word.

_‘Hannibal Lecter, 45, died Thursday night, August 3 rd 1978 at Brown Memorial Hospital in Baton Rouge, LA. He is survived by his wife and sister. Death was attributed to multiple gunshot wounds.’_

His hands are clumsy, holding the paper too lightly. He scans the information regarding the services and stares at the small photograph provided. He sits back in his seat. If he doesn’t start driving right now, he won’t make it to the viewing. Considering he avoided his dad’s funeral and has always regretted it, he won’t let himself miss this. His brain turns off for the duration of the ride, completely blank, and it’s by some miracle that he finally parks outside the funeral home.

One woman sits inside.

He eyes the back of her blonde head, feeling dizzy and nauseated as he walks down the aisle toward the coffin.

He touches it and murmurs, “It’s not open.”

“I didn’t think he would want it to be,” the woman says. Her melodic voice compels him to turn around, and her similarity to Hannibal takes his breath away. She peers up at him with red-rimmed eyes, but her expression is as numb as he feels. “Who are you?”

“He was my friend,” Will says. “Are you his sister?” She nods. “Where is everyone?”

“They’ll be here soon. You might not want to be around. You seem harmless to me, but…”

“What about his…you know?”

“His wife? Oh. _Oh_ , I’m so sorry.” She looks pained. “They were separated. If you and he…I’m so sorry. He didn’t have what you would call ‘friends.’ He must have liked you a lot. You can stay here with me. I’ll vouch for you, sweetheart. You’re welcome to the funeral.”

He tries to smile.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” she asks, preparing to rise from her seat, but he gives her a heartfelt apology under his breath and walks out.

It’ll probably be a few months before he cries, if he ever does. It was the same way with his dad.

He didn’t know Hannibal, but he sure wanted to. He wanted to so bad.

He’s so distracted and upset when he reaches the bridge that he doesn’t notice the black figure in the middle of it, and he almost steps on the breaks too late. He wasn’t wearing his seat belt so he knocks his head pretty good against the wheel. He puts the car in park and gets out, expecting to finally see a black dog on Black Dog Bridge, but he’s surprised instead with a bulky black cat tearing into a fluttering and cawing crow, its feathers scattered all over the bridge and blowing around in the breeze. The cat lifts its head and trains its yellow eyes on him and that’s when Will starts crying, because _of fucking course._

He takes a deep breath and wipes his face, determined to compose himself, and edges closer.

The cat hisses and spits, baring slightly yellowed teeth. When its jaws close, an overbite makes its sharp canines hang down over its chin. It’s a weird-looking animal, short-furred with big bat-like ears and a very pronounced skull and a triangular face. It doesn’t respond to his cooing and pleading like the dogs do, preferring to growl lowly and lash its long tail from side to side. It finally abandons its catch and darts across the bridge, disappearing into the undergrowth on the side of the road.

It gives Will something to pour his heart into.

He leaves his dogs at home and returns with a can of tuna or some other treat every day, opening it close to the bushes. When he finds the cans the following day, sometimes it’s been dragged into the road or further out into the forest. But it’s always empty, licked clean. After a week of this he packs a lunch and sits in the middle of the bridge all afternoon with the can set on the bridge halfway between him and the woods. When the cat emerges in the evening, it feels like fucking Christmas. It creeps forward, licking its lips, and after some initial indecision it decides to sit and eat where Will left the food. In the coming weeks, he grows bolder, laying the can at his feet. The cat trots up to him with its tail lifted high in the air and immediately shoves its face into the tuna, paying Will no mind.

The cat is male, probably in his prime. His ears are ripped and there are a few nicks on his nose but his coat is sleek and shiny, and he looks heavy with muscle. It isn’t from Will’s feeding, because he seems a tiny bit pudgy after all the tuna. He’s a skilled hunter, Will learns. Sometimes Will finds dead mice and birds left out for him. He doesn’t want the gifts but he’s grateful anyway, and he disposes them where another animal will find and eat them.

When he lets Will touch him, rubbing forcefully against his palm and purring eagerly, it’s the best reward for all his hard work. The cat follows him home and doesn’t seem at all surprised by the dogs, bopping them on the nose if they invade his space or get too rowdy. The dogs learn to respect him, especially when Will’s smaller dogs realize the cat is just as big as they are. He sleeps with Will at night, tucked under his chin or curled around his head on the pillow. Will gets used to waking up to sandpapery licking against his cheek.

The first time Will takes the cat fishing, he swipes at the water for hours and appears mesmerized by the fish Will catches throughout the day. He likes to ride in the boat. After a full year in Will’s care, the cat accompanies him to the boatyards every morning, sunning on the docks and freaking out superstitious onlookers. But the black cat keeps him happy and he works hard, so people them alone.

“I know you’re not _him_ , or at least I don’t think you are,” Will tells the cat one evening. He pulls out his wallet and removes the crumpled newspaper photograph. A thick skull pushes against his leg and he reaches down to pat the needy feline, scratching him behind his large ears. “But you make me happy. And I think he’d prefer this life. We could’ve been happy together, in some other world.”

The cat lets out a rasping meow in agreement.

“It’s just a feeling, Mephistopheles.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> You could say...curiosity killed the cat...but satisfaction brought him back...*is shot* (Ouch! I'm full of it today.)


End file.
